K Parker - Devices and Desires

Similarly, he made a point of not looking at the end result he needed to achieve. It was too far away, and there were too many obstacles, he'd never live to reach it. But he might just make it as far as the first step in his design, the second, possibly even the third. Same as a big project in the factory; you know you'll never get it all done in one day, so you plan it out: today we'll cut the material, tomorrow we'll face off and mark out, the next day we'll turn the diameter, cut the threads, and so on. It complicated things a little that his motivation and his objective were so closely linked, because they were so simple (but it's good design to make one part carry out two functions); if he couldn't let himself believe in it, he couldn't very well rely on it to drive him forward across the heather and the tussocks of couch-grass. Fortunately, he found he could turn a blind eye to the inconsistency. The motivation was strong enough to keep him going, even though the objective was so ridiculously far-fetched. All he had to do-it was so simple, to a man who lived by and for complexities-all he had to do was close his eyes and think of her, and he was like the flywheel driven by the belt, whether it likes it or not.

The next day was all uphill, and Miel was needed to supervise the carts, and the wounded, and various other things that had got slightly worse overnight. It didn't help that Orsea was insisting he was strong enough to ride; it wasn't fair on the doctor, for one thing. The wretched man had enough to do with several hundred critical cases (who weren't dukes, but who did what they were told) without having to stay within earshot of His. Highness in case the partially healed wound burst and the idiot needed to be seen to straight away before he bled to death.

'I can manage, really,' Miel told his oldest friend.

'I know that,' Orsea replied, shifting painfully in his saddle, 'but you shouldn't have to. This is my responsibility. You look like death warmed up.'

'Thank you so much.' Miel winced, as though he wanted to ride away in a huff but knew he wasn't allowed to, because it would be discourteous. 'Look, it's no big deal. If I can just get a few tangles straightened out, we can be on our way and it'll be fine. It'll be much quicker for me to deal with the problems myself than explain what they are so you can handle them. And,' he added, with the air of a general committing his last reserves in a final reckless charge, 'the doctor says you won't be fit to ride for another three days.'

Orsea made a remark about the doctor that was both vulgar and inaccurate. 'Besides,' he went on, 'if it's my health you're all worried about, you ought to realise that if I've got to spend another day alone in a cart brooding about what a fuck-up I've made of everything, it's absolutely guaranteed I'll die of guilt and frustration. So telling me what the doctor said isn't just annoying and high treason, it's counterproductive.'

Miel sighed melodramatically. 'Not up to me,' he said. 'If you want to risk a massive haematoma-'

'You mean haemorrhage,' Orsea pointed out. 'Haematoma is bruises. Trust me, all right? Now let's talk about something else. How's that cousin of yours getting on, Jarnac-'He stopped himself abruptly; Miel smiled.

'It's all right,' he said, 'Jarnac wasn't killed in the battle. In fact, he didn't join the army at all. Stayed at home.'

'Sensible chap.'

Miel frowned. 'No, actually. Cousin Jarnac doesn't approve of the war. He thinks it's wrong. And I don't mean wrong as in liable to end up a complete fiasco; wrong as in morally bad. All wars, not just this one.'

Orsea nodded. 'There's a word for that, isn't there?'

'I can think of several.'

'No, I mean it's a known-about thing, an ism. Pacifism.'

'Is that right?' Miel yawned. 'There's times when my cousin gets so far up my nose he's practically poking out of my ear. Why did you mention him, all of a sudden?'

'Don't know,' Orsea said. 'Or rather, yes I do. I was lying there awake in the early hours, and for some reason I was remembering that sparrowhawk he had when we were kids. Mad keen on falconry he was, back then.'

'Still is. Why, do you fancy going hawking when we get home? I'm sure he'd be glad of the excuse to show off.'

'It might be fun,' Orsea said. 'Though God knows, I shouldn't even be thinking of swanning about enjoying myself when there's so much work to be done. Besides, what would people think?'

'There goes the Duke, having a day off,' Miel replied: 'You aren't the first man in history who's lost a battle. And it wasn't your fault. No, really. You weren't to know about those scorpion things. If it hadn't been for them-'

'Which is like saying if it wasn't for the rain, it'd be a dry day' Orsea scowled. 'Sooner or later, you'll have to admit it, Miel. I screwed up. I led thousands of our people to their death.'

Miel sighed loudly. 'All right, yes. It's-very bad. And it's going to be very tense for a while back home, until people come to terms with it. But these things happen; and you know what? It's not you they're going to hate, it's the Mezentines, because they're the ones who killed our people. Now, do you want me to organise a day with the birds when we get home, or not?'

Orsea shook his head. 'Best not,' he said. 'At least, not for a while. Now, what can I do to help?'

Eventually, Miel let him organise the reconnaissance parties. That was all right, he was happy with that. They were, he knew, in sensitive territory. Not far away (nobody was entirely sure where; that was the problem) was the border between the two mountain dukedoms. He felt confident that the Vadani wouldn't make trouble unless they felt they were provoked. Straying inadvertently on to their land with an army, however, even if that army was a chewed-up remnant, would probably constitute provocation, particularly to some of the old-school Vadani commanders who were still having trouble coming to terms with the peace. Vital, therefore, to keep a sharp eye open for routine border patrols, and to keep well out of their way. The scout captains duly set off, and he settled down in the vanguard to wait for the first reports.

The Vadani, he thought; that's probably what made me think about falcons, and Jarnac Ducas. It had been years since he'd seen his cousin Valens; the last time, come to think of it, was before he-before either of them-had come to the throne; before his wedding, even. He tried to picture Valens in his mind, and saw a thin, sharp-nosed, sullen boy who never spoke first. He remembered feeling sorry for him, watching him riding to the hunt with his outrageous father. It had been a cold, miserable occasion; a state visit, reception and grand battue to celebrate a truce in the unending, insoluble war. It was obvious that nobody on either side believed in the truce-they were all proved right a few months later, when it collapsed into bloody shambles-and hardly anybody made any effort to mask his scepticism; but they'd attended the reception, watched the dancers, listened to the musicians, gone through the motions with fixed smiles, and then that dreadful day's hunting, in the cold mist, everybody getting muddled about the directions, not hearing the horns, getting to their pegs too early or too late; the old Duke in a raging temper because the beaters had gone in before they were supposed to, and the deer had been flushed and had gone on long before the guests were in position. Not that any of the Eremian contingent cared a damn; but the Duke did, because he actually cared whether they caught anything or not-some of the Eremians reckoned the visit and the whole truce business was just a pretext he'd cooked up for a full-scale battue at the beginning of the season. As a result, the Duke spent the day charging backwards and forwards across the field yelling at huntsmen and line-captains, and young Valens had charged with him, grimly wretched but keeping up, so as not to get lost and add to the day's problems. It was painfully obvious that he didn't want to be there; obvious that his father knew it, and didn't care. He took his son with him the way you'd wear a brooch or a belt you hated, but which a relative had given you, so you had to wear it so as not to hurt their feelings. That day, he'd felt very sorry for Valens, and it was still the mental image his mind defaulted to, when his, advisers debated the Vadani question in council, or when his wife talked about Valens to him. It's hard to hate someone who, in your mind, is forever a sad twelve-year-old, soaking wet on a horse far too big for him. Orsea, of course, made a point of never hating anybody unless it was absolutely unavoidable.